


Gordian Knots

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets by after Dean's death with a little help of the blond persuasion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gordian Knots

It wasn't until he'd lost Dean that Sam realized how tangled up in each other they'd gotten. Their weapons were jumbled together in the trunk of the car, both laptops had a complete list of both of their favorite sites (And how pathetic was it that seeing Busty Asian Beauties in the history made Sam want to cry?), even their snacks spilled over in the glove compartment, flavors mingling in a weird hybrid of peanut and chocolate and mint. But their strange co-dependency was most visible in their bags, where Dean's underwear was tangled with Sam's socks and Sam's shampoo lay alongside Dean's deodorant and hair gel. They were usually in too much of a hurry to worry about what was whose - it was all going to the same place, so they'd long ago gotten in the habit of sweeping things into the nearest bag and sorting it out later.

Except that now there was no later. Or at least, not one that mattered, anyway.

Dean would never bitch about Sam's cologne stinking up his shirts again, never sneak his 3-day-old socks in with Sam's clean jeans, never pretend he didn't use expensive gel and spend a half an hour getting his hair to look like he'd just rolled out of bed. Sam tried not to think about it, but after the second time in four days that he'd had to go hunt for a pair of shorts in the bag in the car, he knew he had to face it. Just... not then. And certainly not sober.

Of course, sober hadn't been much of an option for him over the last three weeks, but he figured he was entitled to a little drunken binge. His brother had just died, died to make sure he lived, and Sam hated him for that every bit as much as he'd ever loved him. Not that he didn't still love him or miss him with every breath he took, that was.

"Oh, I can tell you do, mate. No worries on that account," a low voice assured him.

Sam raised his head and shot a bleary look at the man sitting a few stools down from him. He must have said all that aloud; Dean had always said he had no filter when he was drunk. But he'd liked that about him, used to enjoy getting him drunk and making him tell him -

"Spill all your dirty secrets to him, didja?" A flash of white teeth was all he managed to make out before the guy slipped down from his seat and sauntered over towards him. Bright blond hair and white skin seemed to float above a black T-shirt and long black coat, a surreal grace note to the already strange night Sam was having. "Can tell me if you fancy, pet. I'll share if you will," he purred in a husky tone that skittered right down Sam's spine. He wasn't sure if it was the guy's voice or his accent (Sam had always been a sucker for accents), but something about him made Sam's mouth go dry with the first surge of desire he'd had since Dean died.

He licked his lips, but shook his head. "They're not that interesting," he fumbled. They'd mostly been about Dean, anyway; how good he smelled when he was holding Sam up or how much Sam wanted to suck his dick when they got back to the room. Although that one usually led to a blow job in the parking lot, since talking about it tended to get them both too worked up to wait. Trying to focus on the guy who was now very much in his personal space, Sam asked, "Why do you wanna hear 'em, anyway?"

The man shrugged, and Sam caught a whiff of cigarette smoke and leather as he leaned in a little closer. "Just fancied it, 'sall. Don't really feel like bein' alone with my memories tonight, seemed like you wouldn't mind a little company yourself, thought I'd give it a go. Won't bother you if you don't want it, though."

He turned to leave and Sam's hand shot out to grab his sleeve. "Wait!" When the stranger turned around, Sam tugged him a little closer. "Maybe... maybe company would be okay."

One eyebrow rose, but he didn't offer any argument, just fished in his coat pocket for a cigarette and lighter, sliding one between his lips while a flick of his thumb brought the other to life. The tip of the cigarette glowed red as he took a drag, then turned his head and exhaled away from Sam in a long plume of smoke. "Right. The name's Spike, by the way." He let his gaze drift appraisingly over Sam's body and asked, "An' what do I call you, besides one hell of a good time?"

The line was incredibly cheesy, but enough like something Dean might've said that Sam couldn't help the half-laugh, half-snort that came out. "I'm Sam," he corrected, offering his hand.

Slender fingers wrapped around it in a surprisingly strong, cool grip that pulled him down for a kiss. Sam stiffened when Spike's lips first met his, but after a few seconds, he opened his mouth and a sleek tongue immediately slid inside. It quickly became apparent that Spike definitely knew what he was doing as far as kissing went, and Sam felt himself harden for the first time in what seemed like years.

Spike must've gotten rid of the cigarette, because partway through the kiss, another hand slid down Sam's stomach, fingers trailing over the waistband of his jeans for an agonizingly long time before a palm covered his erection. "Thinkin' we should be headin' out 'fore we're thrown out," Spike teased, nipping his bottom lip lightly as he pulled back and grinned at Sam.

Digging into his pocket, Sam peeled two bills off of last night's pool winnings and tossed them on the bar, then hooked two fingers into Spike's belt as he stood up. Spike was considerably shorter than Sam, his head just about even with Sam's shoulder, but Sam liked that. He wondered what Spike would look like when he was getting fucked through the mattress, if he'd beg when Sam opened him up for it, or what kind of sounds he'd make if Sam sucked him off first.

"Christ, with a mouth like that on you, it's a wonder that Dean of yours ever let you get sober," Spike ground out, fingers sliding into his hair to pull him down for another kiss that had them both panting when they pulled back. "C'mon, then; don't fancy waitin' any longer'n I have to."

Sam wasn't about to argue with that. He followed Spike out of the bar, pausing a few times to push him up against a post, a wall, the sign outside, and two random cars in the parking lot before they made it to the Impala. He started to climb in the driver's side, but a hand shoved him over and Spike slid behind the wheel as naturally as if he belonged there. "Not about to let you drive, mate. Got better things for you to do that don't include wrappin' this sweet ride 'round a light post."

It was strange and weird and should have been wrong, seeing someone besides his brother in the driver's seat, but when Spike's eyes slid down over his body, liquid heat in his gaze, Sam felt almost like Dean _was_ there. And while he knew it was a bad idea to use one person to substitute for another (just look at what had happened with Jess), he told himself that it couldn't hurt just this once. One night was all he needed, a few hours' respite from the his crushing grief, and he'd go back to missing Dean in the morning.


End file.
